


Loyal, Royal Subject

by nightshiftblues



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Character Death, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, M/M, Scheming, Side Angelica Schuler/Lafayette
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-05-28 17:20:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19398814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightshiftblues/pseuds/nightshiftblues
Summary: “The heart of the king loves everything like the hammer loves the nail” - Anais Mitchell, HadestownAlexander is ill-suited for endeavors that call for patience and subtlety. That won’t change the fact that he’s going to have to lie, cheat, and charm his way into the royal bedchambers.Failure is not an option.





	1. Impoverished, in Squalor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wouldn’t recommend going into this expecting likeable Thomas or historical accuracy.
> 
> Also if I’m not totally failing as a writer the narrative of this story is supposed to be sympathetic and humanizing towards sex workers, but the word whore does get thrown around a lot. Sorry about that.

“Name?”

“Alexander Hamilton, sir.”

“Strip.”

Alexander hesitates. Not because he has any particular qualms about undressing in front of several strangers (that would be problematic, considering what he’s trying to do here), but because it feels like a trap. Do the applicants with the name of some noble family or another on top of their resumés get told to take their clothes off before they as much as take a bow? Perhaps this is a test to see if the scrappy commoner is capable of pretending he has some semblance of self-respect.

The “curator”, as they call him, taps his thin, silver-crusted cane against his boot impatiently. He is a tiny, plump man with an apparent disposition for blushing when aggravated, and an even more apparent need to compensate for his height with expensive fabrics and copious amounts of jewelry. As if being in charge of a glorified brothel is something to brag about. “Are you thick, boy? I said strip.” 

Alex chews on the inside of his lip. “How?”

There’s a stirring across the long table, behind which sits a panel of four women and two men, all donned in fine silks and flashy accessories. They all had a disinterested glaze in their eyes when Alex walked into the warmly lit sitting room, tired after reviewing an endless stream of applicants no doubt. A few of them are perking up now, sizing him up. Whatever keeps them from looking at his modest and partly fabricated list of recommendations, he supposes.

“How?” The curator doesn’t sound entertained.

“Do you just want to see the goods, or am I to demonstrate my ability to undress seductively?” Hamilton fails to keep the mocking tint out of his voice. Behind the table, someone stifles a giggle.

“How about your ability to follow simple instructions?” The man sneers.

Alexander’s fists threaten to clench at his sides and his teeth clamp down on the inside of his cheek. He already messed up his chances with the other Royal Pleasure House in the city (by punching the curator in the face, to be exact). This is the last chance he has - it’s a miracle that stunt didn’t get him a lifetime ban of even looking to the palace’s general direction to begin with. This is _important,_ so why does his temper still get the best of him? He fought his way into King’s College, for Christ’s sake, will getting into Whore Academy truly be where he meets the limit of his ability-

“Enough,” says one of the women behind the table. She stands up with an air or grace and authority. The woman is tall, stunning and incredibly dignified in her pale dusty rose-colored gown, her black natural hair pinned away from her noble face and cascading freely down her back. “I think I’ve seen enough for today.”

“Mistress Schyler,” the curator bows down to his waist and a servant girl rushes from behind the curtain to help her into a coat. Alexander watches mutely, his tongue sitting dead and useless in his mouth.

“I’ll be taking him,” she says as she passes Alex on her way to the door.

“Oh but Mistress, are you quite certain-”

“I look forward to seeing you in the initiation rite, Richard.”

Alex inhales sharply and scurries after her.

A blast of cold air hits him as they step outside. A relief after the suffocatingly warm air of the interviewing room. They enter a white carriage with gold carvings and Alex resists the urge to sit on his palms to keep them warm; unlike ‘Mistress Schuler’, he only has a thin, worn out overcoat on top of his dress shirt to keep the cold at bay. The only warm coat he owns is a drab brown thing salvaged from his brother over a decade ago, which would have only gotten him laughed out of the pleasure house.

“You must excuse the short commute,” the woman says. “You will find the concubine village comfortable and tidy, but inconveniently sizeable, and I do not enjoy walking in the cold.”

Alexander blinks. “It’s quite alright.”

“Oh!” she gasps and Alex nearly jumps. “Goodness me, I haven’t even introduced myself yet, have I? Please forgive my manners, this is not how I intend to mentor you, worry not.”

“I,” Alex nearly stutters, his usually slick tongue struck dumb by the sophisticated manner of this charming woman. They have yet to have a proper conversation, and yet she is already inspiring… something, in Alexander. A need to seize _that,_ whatever it is, this natural claim to respect. “I don’t. Worry, that is.”

“Angelica Schuyler,” she says with a polite smile.

“Milady,” Alex says tentatively as he reaches for her extended hand across the carriage. She nods as he brushes his lips lightly against her gloved knuckles and Alexander’s shoulders relax - getting the title right can be difficult when it comes to a social class as varied as courtesans. Not that noble upbringing isn’t evident in every aspect of her manner.

“Alexander Hamilton, as you heard before,” he says.

“I am most glad to make your acquaintance, Alexander Hamilton,” she’s smiling still and the perceptive look in her eyes are making Alex feel opaque in a way that he is very unused to.

“The pleasure is mine.”

He doesn’t dare make conversation lest he says something that makes her change her mind, and the rest of the short carriage ride is spent in silence, Lady Angelica Schuyler gazing out of the window contemplatively. They soon halt and Angelica leads Alexander into a charming house that is only a wing or two away from a mansion. He tries not to gape too openly; straightens his back and relaxes his stroll.

Angelica flies down the hallway, an entourage of servants dancing around her in practiced coordination, stripping her of her over garments. Alex has to half-jog to keep up. A servant girl takes his coat and has the discretion of not staring despite of the drabness of his attire.

“Let’s have tea in the parlor,” Angelica calls over her shoulder. “My sister Margaret will be joining us for supper later this evening; I hope you’re not terribly famished.”

Alex finds himself seated in a beautiful, tastefully but extravagantly decorated parlor. The setting sun filters into the room between the thin silky curtains and gives Angelica’s beautiful complexion a warm, inviting tint.

Her eyes scan unabashedly over Alexander’s frame and he feels like sinking into the sofa cushions. That way he would at wearing a nice, expensive fabric at least.

“You do have the face for it,” she muses. “And the body, once we feed you a few good meals. Pad out those ribs.”

Alex shifts, suddenly uncomfortably aware of how baggy his shirt sits at his waistline.

“But that alone won’t get you into court,” she continues and taps her thumb against her forehead. _“This_ is what sets a royal courtesan or concubine aside from a common whore.” Alex blinks as the ugly word falls from her painted lips, just like that. “Anyone can be a pretty face and an eager mouth - for that service alone, our clients can and will go to a brothel. We fulfill a different need, and that takes consumable skill. Can you play an instrument?”

Alex doesn’t see what that has to do with his prostitution potential, but he can tell his adaptability and ability to catch on are being tested, so he keeps his snark to himself. “No, milady.”

“Dance?”

“Passably.”

“Sew?”

“What, am I to seduce someone by making them a quilt?”

Well, he tries. Angelica cocks an eyebrow.

“I have a way with words,” Alexander offers. “My writing is my strongest asset, artistically and academically.”

Angelica nods. “We can use that.”

She picks up her teacup (Alexander tries to subtly mimic the delicate way she holds it between her fingers) and tilts her head contemplatively. “You do have an exotic look.” Alex bites his tongue. “It’ll get you noticed, but the novelty will wear off quickly. Things become old news in court faster than you can say ‘cheap gimmick’. Based on your accent you’re from the island colonies, yes?”

Alex inhales sharply through his nose. He spent years receiving raps on his knuckles from a relentlessly strict school ma’am whenever his background filtered through to his speech. He’d thought that his looks would always give away his immigrant status, but at least when he opened his mouth people would be forced to recognize that he could go against the best of them with his eloquence and wit. All that work and someone like Angelica can still tell right away?

Alexander must fail to keep his thoughts off his face, as Angelica’s gaze softens. “Certain things you have to be born into,” she says. “As you may know, the majority of courtesans are daughters and sons of noble families,” it needs not be said Angelica is part of this group, “but it is not unheard of for people of a more modest background to climb up the ranks.”

Alex feels his hackles rise and his grip on the teacup gets tighter and clumsier. Angelica gives him a smile that almost approaches crookedness. 

“Being a second-rate imitation of the usual thing won’t help you sell yourself in court, Alexander. Don’t you dare snort at that choice of phrase, you know what I meant.” Alex stills the twisting corners of his mouth under Angelica’s glare. She sets her teacup down and leans in. “You’re intelligent, articulate, educated and strong-minded. You’re also an immigrant, a curiosity. Someone with different stakes than the rest of us, no family to tie you down. _That_ is your selling point.” She leans back again and gazes at the middle distance contemplatively. “We are currently living, ah, interesting times in court; the timing has never been quite as ample for shaking things up.”

 _Interesting times, huh?_ Alex files that tidbit away for later deliberation.

He clears his throat. “I don’t mean to offend you milady, but I am still not quite sure why you’re doing this. You’ve clearly made well for yourself here.” Alex glances at the high-class art on the walls, the meticulously picked out furniture.

Angelica interlaces her fingers on her lap and seems to pick her next words with care. “Being a courtesan with a womb is… a double edged sword,” she says slowly. “If you bear a child for a member of the royal family at an opportune moment, you’re set for life. You may even gain royal status if you’re particularly lucky and smart about it. When times are… delicate, however,” she trails off meaningfully.

Alex nods slowly to show that he catches her meaning. King George Washington was deemed sterile a decade ago, and has adopted two brothers from extended family to inherit the throne; Prince Thomas and Prince Gilbert. As they are twins, both technically have equal claim to the throne in terms of age, and thus the King has announced Prince Thomas shall be first in the line of inheritance. Prince Gilbert endorses his brother publicly any chance he gets, but his loyalty would still seem dubious if he went around fathering bastards left and right. Politically, it would be very unwise of him to father children until his brother is securely married with an heir.

Hence, male courtesans.

Alex allows a grin to spread on his face as the puzzle pieces start to come together. _The gods are on our side, Jack._

Angelica moves the conversation along to Alexander’s health status, but his mind keeps whirring around the most fascinating piece on information he just learned.

The delicate timing is leaving Angelica unable to conduct business with the royal family. She needs a male courtesan by her side, someone she can trade away to maintain her status.

Restless energy buzzes through Alexander’s body. He’s never been too partial to good luck, but perhaps for once things are about to go his way. There’s a quill, carefully tucked into his breast pocket as always, and Alexander’s fingers wander up and feel for the shape of it through the few layers of fabric.

“Now,” Angelica’s apologetic smile shakes him out of his excited reverie. “I’m afraid I am going to have to ask you to undress. Training will be for naught if you’re hiding some kind of a rash or unseemly scarring under there.”

Alexander inhales deeply, nods and stands up. He undoes the buttons of his shirt and bares himself for the first time in what will no doubt be numerous times to come.

For the revolution.

For John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s a haiku:  
> Tell me what you think  
> comments are my bread and drink  
> pretty pretty please


	2. Looks, Proximity to Power

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A mild self harm TW, see end notes for details.

It takes Alexander a year and twenty-two days to get into the same room with the princes. A year and twenty-two days of etiquette lessons, of dance practice, of sensitivity training. The latter mostly includes stuffing carved blocks of smooth marble down his throat until he stops gagging and drooling unseemly. All of it under Angelica’s scrutinizing gaze and surprisingly bony knuckles ready for backhanding.

That’s frustrating enough in itself, but it takes Alexander a year, three months and seventeen days to make eye contact with a prince; until then, he observes from afar and reports what he sees back to Angelica. Not that he can tell her anything she doesn’t already know.

Perhaps the most infuriating part of it all, though? Alexander is forced to begrudgingly admit that, for once, the pamphlets and poems have not exaggerated; the royal twins are, indeed, exceedingly handsome. Gallant. Tall. Well-mannered. Both sport healthy brown complexions, jawlines they need not hide under beards (both maintain a clean, close shave), and lean yet muscular builds. Wigs immediately went out of fashion when they arrived to court, but those who still wear them wear ones that obviously imitate the luscious clouds of natural curls both of them possess. They never come even close to the real deal.

Yet, despite of the shared facial features and silhouettes, even a newcomer like Alexander can tell them apart with ease. If he was tasked with writing one of those poems that romanticize the royalty in the minds of the common people under their boot, he might compare them to celestial bodies, to try and convey the mortifying gravitational pull they possessed. Perhaps he would describe Prince Gilbert as golden and loud as midday Sun, all blindingly bright smiles and bursts of delirious laughter. It’s a mask he wears, Alex can tell as much watching him humor an adoring crowd, but a disarming one, and completely opaque. Underneath the large hand gestures and quippy remarks, it is next to impossible to tell what the man is really thinking, let alone feeling.

Prince Thomas on the other hand commands attention and changes the atmosphere of the room like the Moon. That is, if the Moon was extremely condescending and pompous - this is the part where the metaphor falls apart when Alex gives is too much thought. Prince Gilbert is a soldier throughout, a general to be exact. Swept through entire battalions leaving nothing but ruin and death in his wake during the war. Prince Thomas, on the other hand, is a Southern gentleman. An aristocrat of the finest breeding. The mask he wears over his malicious intellect is that of nonchalance and lazy cockiness.

Something they have in common with each other, and the king as well for that matter, is that they give Alexander the shivers.  _ Birds of a feather. _

Angelica has decided the Winter’s ball is an appropriate occasion to make some important people aware of Alexander’s existence. The court has spared no expense, eager to assure the nobility of the wealth and prosperity the new colonies have brought the kingdom thanks to the half a decade-long war they sponsored. The curved glass ceiling of the main ballroom reflects a stretched out, warped version of the bustling crowd below, mostly adorned in deep burgundy and navy blue- the most fashionable colors of the season. The peculiar architecture of the room does something strange to acoustics, Alex has been told; under the right circumstances, even a confidential whisper can easily carry to the other end of the room. It always makes him feel slightly off kilter at first, hearing all these disembodied murmurs and giggles with no clear source or target in sight. He tries to think of it as a useful reminder of how private everything being said within these walls truly is.

Alex knows that while some of the murmurs and giggles are most certainly targeted at him, he makes a fitting accessory for Angelica. The long bath with tangerine and pine-scented oils, the brand new snugly fitted coat and the carefully fastened ponytail have left him almost feeling like he has a place in this brilliantly glistening world. Like he’s not offending the delicate beauty of it all with his mere presence. Alex basks in Angelica’s glow as she works the room, trots at her heels dutifully memorizing faces and exchanging pleasantries.

He doesn’t think about the amount of taxes and forced labor they must have collected from his island to fund this function. Doesn’t think about all the rebuilding they could have done after the hurricane with just a fraction the ball’s decoration budget. He needs to pay attention.

“Channel the swan,” Angelica mutters from the corner of her mouth as her sister Margaret, or Peggy, as Alexander nowadays knows her in the privacy of Angelica’s living quarters, spots them and starts to weave through the crowd. The swan comment means Alexander is going to have to dance soon; a reminder to keep his upper half regal and fluid while his feet do all the work.

“Alexander!” Peggy squeals and they exchange court-appropriate cheek kisses where no skin on skin contact comes even close to happening. “Angelica has finally thrown you to the wolves! How are you liking it?”

The smile Alex gives her comes dangerously close to being a genuine one. Peggy is one of the few nobles he couldn’t bring himself to truly dislike if he tried. “It is splendid, though I am being kept on a short leash.”

Angelica swats at his arm with her fan. “Oh, is that so? Perhaps Peggy would be nice enough to take you away from my oppressive claws for a moment, then?"

As if on cue, the current song ends and the dancing couples bow and curtsy at each other. Angelica’s sense for timing is frankly terrifying.

Peggy grabs Alexander’s arm before he manages to fully extend it. “Don’t mind if I do!”

“You look mesmerizing, by the way,” Alex tells her as they step onto the floor (already slightly sticky with spilled champagne) and the first chords ring through the room. It’s a menuet. Alex kind of likes this one.

“Same as you,” Peggy smirks. “Let me guess, Angelica made you chew your lips and pinch the apples of your cheeks before you went out?”

“Oh no, she was courteous enough to do that for me.”

They share a good-natured giggle.

It makes sense why Angelica would choose Peggy as Alexander’s first public dance partner. As an unmarried lady of status and wealth she has many eyes on her, and the familiarity allows Alexander to focus on making his movements delicate and nimble without having to worry about coming up with witty conversation points. For a moment he doesn’t feel like he’s been tossed into the deep end and lets the rhythm and coordination sweep him along into the delirious atmosphere.

Alex has always thought it quite obvious that court dances were invented by the sexually repressed people of the past (an observation that earned him a swat on the face during rehearsal). The push and pull, the touching palms, the brief yet lingering circles made into the orbit of the other dancers simply scream ‘I need an excuse to touch someone’. Not that he minds the opportunity of showing off his coordination and grace.

It is thanks to the sexually repressed people of the past that Alexander ends up locking eyes with Prince Thomas.

He’s not prepared whatsoever when it happens, completely failed to even consider the possibility. He turns away from Peggy right after she makes some clever quip, laugher still lingering on his lips, and then he’s stepping in tandem with the crown prince, just the length of an arm separating them. A pair dark eyes appraise him lazily, one elegant brow quirked. The laugher dies on Alexander’s lips and his face goes slack with something that, in turn, raises a speck of amusement onto Prince Thomas’ face. Alexander feels his face heat up as they both pretend to kiss the tips of their fingers and, as soon as their hands connect, Prince Thomas practically flings Alexander past him like a rag doll, into the chest of the man behind him. Alex bites back his irritation and smiles at the bewildered stranger apologetically. _Who does he think he is?_ Such rough handling is only necessary with a dance partner out of their depth with no idea of where they’re going.

Not that it matters, he thinks furiously, not even registering the faces of the other dancers on his path. The prince will see Alexander is the one who’s a step or two ahead. In time. 

By some mercy from above he doesn’t lose track of his steps and even manages to swing his ponytail playfully as he circles around the crown prince a second time, the choreography slowly but surely taking him back to Peggy. If a gaze lingers on the back of his neck, he doesn’t turn to look. _Pompous prick._

Still flustered after the dance, Alex excuses himself and goes for the balcony, where he can grip the hand railing and gulp in lungfuls of crisp winter air in peace. It’s freezing enough that he gets to listen to the muffled music of the band by himself – the next dance is an alamonde.

Well, he has the privilege of privacy for all of two minutes. Lord John Adams makes it his prerogative to set his hand on the small of Alexander’s back as he steps up next to him. Waves of unpleasantness run up Alexander’s spine from the spot of contact, but he resists the urge to jerk away. John Adams is no one, but upsetting no one is on his agenda for the time being.

“Breathtaking, isn’t it?” Adams says and nods towards the royal gardens.

So the man has eyes. All the flowers are dead in the early February cold, but the neatly trimmed arrays of bushes are veiled with white frost that glimmers more brilliantly than all the jewels in the ballroom combined. There is a giant fountain in the center of the garden, the surface of which reflects the bright half-moon and the cloudless starry sky in almost a storybook-like manner.

“It is,” Alex admits and smiles, not unkind but not too familiar either.

Lord Adams’ hand falls lower, but not low enough that Alex can make a scene without coming across as frigid. “A fitting backdrop for a young, beautiful thing like you, I should think.”

This is the part Alexander hates the most. Not the attention itself necessarily, but having to say no without saying no. Having to bat his eyelashes and giggle as it there’s nothing he’d rather do than get down on his knees for this bloated excuse of a man. Having to stroke their ego even as he turns them down.

He shakes the hand with the pretense of turning to face Adams. “Sir, you flatter me,” he says and wills a close-lipped smile on his face.

Adams grins and actually has the audacity to step into Alexander’s space. Alex hides his disgust at the reek of champagne and what is probably the remnants of the man’s breakfast in the crevices of his teeth.

“I would be honored to commemorate your introduction to this society with the fanfare it deserves,” he says, slime practically dripping from the pauses between the words.

Alex feels his smile turn cagey. “As much as I would love to indulge you, my Lord, I must remind you that I have not finished my apprenticeship yet,” he says his eyes half-lidded with something he knows to resemble carefully restrained want. The rehearsed phrases fall off his lips with ease. “But as soon as I am fully inaugurated into my profession, I shall hope to get to know you better.”

Now all he needs is an excuse to leave the situation and then he and Angelica can have a good laugh about the idea of him ever taking Adams as a client.

Adams’ fingers close around the bend of his arm. “Aw, come now, it doesn’t have to be-”

“Lord Adams, what a fine evening,” a voice rings out, clear and cheerful and sharp. They both jump and suddenly Adams is a good few steps away from Alex.

“I am afraid I will have to tear you away from this beautiful scenery however, as my father the king requires your presence,” Prince Gilbert says.

He cuts a handsome, authoritative silhouette against the lit up wall-length window, shoulders squared but relaxed and his hands clasped behind his back. Alex recognizes it for what it is; a soldier’s stance.

Adams says something Alex doesn’t bother to process as he scurries away. His mind feels like it’s plummeting (along with his gut) full speed towards the harsh, unforgiving ground in free fall.  _ Not like this.  _ It was not supposed to happen like this, uninitiated on some balcony with no script and no Angelica to work as a mediator. There was supposed to be buildup, subtle flirtation, meticulously planned out ‘casual’ interaction. No courtesan apprentice would expect one-on-one interaction with a member of the royal family so long before inauguration.

But none of that matters now. Prince Gilbert is standing there on the balcony with him, and Alex still has to improvise and make something out of nothing no matter how high up the ranks of society he manages to climb, apparently.

“You’ll have to forgive me for interrupting you in the midst of bonding with our king’s advisor,” the prince says, clearly fully aware of how unwanted the interaction was. The cadence of his speech makes Alex want to respond to him in French, a language he vastly prefers over English anyway, but he’s not allowed to use that ammunition just yet. He can do this.

Prince Gilbert strides up to the railing, leans his elbows to it casually. “You are my beloved Angelica’s apprentice, yes?”

Alex finally locates the tongue in his mouth. “Yes, I am,” he says and offers his hand to be kissed, which Gilbert seems pleased to accept. His lips are as soft as they look. “Alexander Hamilton, at your service. I am most flattered you have noted my presence enough to recognize me, Your Royal Highness.”

“What I noted,” the prince’s lips stretch into a small, almost confiding-like smirk, “was my brother noticing you.”

It takes a good chunk of Alexander’s self-control not to roll his eyes. A person’s eyes lingering on someone or, God forbid, making eye contact actually qualifies as rumor fodder for these people. The nobility truly have turned boredom into a sport.

“I wouldn’t consider it ‘noticing’, as much as me happening upon his line of sight,” he says with a coy smile.

Gilbert hums. “You still have some things to learn then, I see.” He stretches his arms, as much as he can within the confines of his tightly fitted navy-blue jacket. “Well, with Angelica as your mentor I am confident you will catch up soon.”

Oh, he bets. Alex knows all about those two, which makes it all the more puzzling Angelica is so eagerly working to land Alex into this man’s bedroom.

“Welcome to court,  _ mon belle,” _ Prince Gilbert dips into a small, self-aware bow. “I wish you the best of luck.”

“Thank you, Your Royal Highness.”

Alex barely tastes any of the extravagant feast that follows, though he’s sure it’s nothing short of phenomenal. His mind is too busy curling in on itself trying to figure out just how horrified he ought to be right now.

Did prince Gilbert really only come up to him to tell him his brother ‘noticed' him? Is he offended? Competitive? Amused? Is he interested in sharing Alex between them (Alex ignores the jolt of terror that the idea of _that_ scenario coming to fruition sends through him)? Has Alex now been completely eliminated as a candidate for a bed partner merely because the prince has decided his brother has set his sights on Alex? Is it even possible to re-calibrate his target this late on?

He doesn’t make for a brilliant conversationalist in his inner turmoil, but it’s not as though it really matters. As per custom he’s sharing a table with the other courtesan apprentices, who are having an inane conversation about their vacation homes. Extravagant palaces and mansions somewhere out of the reach of the war, wherever their fathers stuck them for the few worst years of the conflict. None of it interests or concerns Alex in the slightest.

“My apologies, Alexander, I hope we’re not making you feel left out of the conversation.” The pearly whites of Aaron Burr’s teeth flash at Alex from across the table.

Out of all the apprentice courtesans, Aaron has been the most courteous towards Alex since the beginning. He also hates Alex the more than any of them.

It took Alex awhile to catch onto this aspect of their relationship, but now that he knows what to look for, he sees it plain as day. It’s in the overcompensating wideness of Aaron’s apologetic smile, in the way his eyes dart down to check if Alex is holding the right piece of cutlery the right way. Under that kind demeanor Aaron must be fuming at the fact that Alex is being introduced to court at the same time he is, despite of only having less than a few years of etiquette training compared to Aaron’s lifetime of being groomed for this world.

Alex has done his homework, of course. Upon the untimely death of his parents, being left with no chaperone to arrange a suitable marriage, Burr took the most logical route to a life of comfort by becoming a courtesan. A calculated and polished move, just like everything he does, it would seem. And why not? The man is both exquisitely beautiful, and well-read. Basically made for the part.

Alex returns his pleasant smile and doesn’t take the bait (a clever one, admittedly; just a few months ago he probably would have fallen for that). “Worry not, I think it is splendid that my, ah, less traveled peers have been able to see what the rest of the world has to offer.”

They share a chuckle over the table and wordlessly agree to rip each other's throats out some other day.

A loud, almost insultingly fake burst of laughter from a nearby table draws in Alexander’s attention.

His eyes find Henry Laurens, laughing just a bit too easily and smiling just a bit too wide. Chatting keenly to anyone unfortunate enough to be seated in his vicinity.

_ Look at me,  _ screams his entire demeanor.  _ Look at me and forget about my traitor son. _

“They did a splendid job with the flower arrangements this year,” someone says to Alexander’s left. He smiles and nods along with the rest of them as he slips a salad fork under the table and presses it to the spot just below the joint of his knee.

“The orchestra, frankly, was better last year.”

If he draws blood it won’t be visible on the black fabric of his trousers.

“I mean, I would  _ dread  _ to come across as unappreciative of…”

Alexander smiles and laughs when appropriate and the sharp pain radiating from where the silver of the fork bites into his flesh counteracts the dull roar of hatred threatening to overtake his blood flow.  _ How dare he? How dare he? Howdarehehowdarehehow- _

“Hey Hamilton, do they farm these cocoa beans where you’re really from?”

Compared to Aaron Burr, James Reynolds is like a flailing toddler when it comes to covert insults slipped into dinner conversations.

Alexander smiles at him a little crookedly and winks. “I’m afraid not Mr. Reynolds. Unlike certain other countries we specialize in the sweet, not the bitter.”

~

_ The bartender refuses to pour the ale until Alex presents him with the money. Almost any other day that alone would have driven him out cussing, but today he opts for a different kind of spiteful and tips the bartender extra generously, as if it doesn’t mean he won’t be having much of a dinner tonight. _

_ Just for this one evening, Alex allows himself the luxury of despair. He stares bitterly into the depths of his chipped pint and thinks of the sweet wine he would get on his island. Even on the hot summer evenings when the occupying soldiers were doing their damnedest to run the cellars dry, the local innkeepers would hide some away for the locals. _

_ They’re all counting on him. All those struggling families that contributed to the collection to get him on that boat, enrolled to that boarding school. So that he could come here, become something, help the community before it’s squeezed as dry of resources as the wine cellars. _

_ They don’t understand that no one here gives a damn about the colonies. The mainlanders are just happy to have their bananas and nutmeg, _ and too busy being either against or for their own revolution to worry about islands they’ll never visit. People stop to listen to his speeches, read his pamphlets, mostly because he’s a damn good orator, but as long as it’s not something that touches their day to day life, they don’t care.

_ “Can I get you another one?” A voice shakes Alex out of his bitter musings. _

_ His glare turns into a confused stare as his eyes land on a hesitant but hopeful-looking young man with a dusting of freckles sprinkled over his copper skin and a poof of curls falling behind the straight line of his shoulders. _

_ “Why?” He’s suddenly a whole less eloquent. _

_ “I’ve seen you speak a few times earlier, at the square,” the man says a little bit sheepishly. “I liked it.” _

_ Helpless to his nature, Alex grins suggestively. “Really? Because I’m pretty sure I would recognize you if that were the case.” _

_ There’s some bitterness to the little snort the man lets out. “Yeah well, I’m being made to hang back for the time being.” _

_ There’s a story to this, Alex can tell. It’s not just because this man is both handsome and complimentary of Alexander’s writing that he gestures to the stool next to him, he swears. The stranger seems happy enough to join him. _

_ “Yo, what you said about the-” the man seems to recall they’re in public and leans closer to Alex, who mirrors the movement. “What you said about the colonies? That’s messed up. The throne sits on an empire created purely on the exploitation of the downtrodden, and it’s like almost no one’s willing to rise up.” _

_ Alex gestures to the bartender haphazardly; he can’t seem to tear his eyes from the face of this man. This face displaying every emotion he wishes he could verbalize but never quite manages to no matter how many pamphlets he pens. _

_ “Rise up?” It falls from his lips like a prayer for the gods he’s no longer allowed to worship. _

_ The bartender finally drags his bones over and the freckled man’s lips stretch into a hungry grin.  _

_ “Let’s have some shots tonight.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About the self harm TW: during the final dinner scene Alex sees Henry Laurens and gets his anger under control by stabbing himself with a fork under the table. It’s brief and not particularly graphic. To skip it, stop reading at “look at me and forget about my traitor son” and pick up at “Hey Hamilton, do they farm these cocoa beans where you’re really from?”


	3. A Testament to His Pain

Alexander’s pulse is like a set of fingers tapping an erratic rhythm against his throat. He shoves his hands deeper into the pockets of his overcoat and tries to look like he has every right to be sauntering unchaperoned through the small back alleys leading to the outskirtsof the concubine village. At this point the quickest route to the easily breachable wall (well, it’s more of a fence really), comes to him easy as anything, but avoiding detection on the way is the tricky part.

If he happens upon some patrolling guards conscientious enough to question why he’s out at this hour, he can probably slither his way out of it without further questioning with some of the money he has socked away. Or by dropping on his knees. The problem is that Angelica would inevitably find out, and that’s an interrogation Alexander will go to any length to avoid, especially this devastatingly far from his end goal. 

In hindsight, being under the tutelage of someone as astute as Lady Schuyler has almost as many drawbacks as it has benefits.

Thankfully, he at least no longer has any incriminating documents on his person.

Alexander doesn’t exhale properly until he finds all windows of the back of the house dark, and the backdoor unlocked just the way he left it. 

The tension gradually eases its grip on his body as he slips into the (very relative) safety within the walls, and leaves him feeling giddy and jittery. Another month of helpless frustration gnawing away at his insides, counterbalanced by another stack of anonymous pamphlets passed on to a trusted contact for distribution. These ones were among Alexander’s best work, if he does say so himself, so he is glad in a slightly self-absorbed way that they will see the light of day.

The relief, as he discovers as soon as he steps into the dark hallway, is short lived. There’s a light on in the parlor.

Saying uncertainly on the balls of his feet, Alex hesitates at the bottom of the staircase. On one hand he really ought to slip back into his bedroom before his extremely modest ration of luck runs out, but on the other hand - Angelica entertaining a guest at this hour? Must be something juicy.

_ Useful, _ Alex corrects himself. He will have a peek in case it’s something _useful._

He slowly steps out of his shoes, picks them up, and starts to inch towards the slightly cracked door of the parlor, stepping on the less creaky floorboards close to the wall. He doesn’t even have to peek in, though - he would know the sing-song voice carrying from the room in his sleep.

“It is not him I am putting my faith in,” Prince Gilbert says, loud and careless like no one of note could possibly overhear him, “but you. The inauguration is drawing near, as I am sure you’re aware, my dear.”

“Alexander will not be attending this year's inauguration,” Angelica responds. Her voice is much softer and therefore harder to make out, but the fact that Alex has heard this line so many times before helps. He suppresses a familiar pang of fluster and irritation. “You know this.”

How jarring it is, hearing Angelica address a member of the royal family with such directness and familiarity. This whole half-hidden history Alex is still scrambling to play catch with based on the coded hints Angelica feeds to him like dinner scraps. ****

“Mon Angelica, you are missing a crucial window here,” Prince Gilbert powers on. “I know my brother, I know the limits and quirks of his affection-”

Angelica laughs, incredulous. Alex barely registers the sound over the stunned chaos of his own panicked mind. Himself and Prince Thomas in the same, hushed conversation held in their softly lit parlor well past midnight could not bode well. Alex could feel his (already loose and precarious) grasp slipping on the reigns of his own destiny.

“Quirks!” Angelica exclaims. “Do you know how much work we have done precisely to market him beyond the novelty value of his aesthetic?” A pause. “I just do not think there is sustainability in what you are suggesting.”

Another pause. If Alexander’s heart rate gets any faster, it might drown out the conversation he’s trying to eavesdrop on altogether.

“And why not?” The fine Persian carpet muffles footsteps but Alex can see their fickle shadows cast on the back wall of the parlour. Gilbert slowly approaching Angelica, like a mountain lion stalking a deer, though Alexander knows better than to liken Angelica to prey. “You’re worried he’ll break your sweet protege?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Why then? You, as the mentor, will enjoy the benefits of his success even if it turns out… short-lived.”

Alex can particularly hear the merciless tick of Angelica’s mind, even from behind the wall.

“You know we take care of those who take care of us, mon Angelica.” Gilbert’s voice goes low and persuasive. From their silhouettes Alex can see him reaching out for her, and Angelica side stepping and twirling out of reach.

“Bold of you to state that when you have not graced us with your presence in months, Your Highness,” Angelica says, re-introducing propriety and formality to the conversation with cold intentionality. “Even now, Your Highness is not truly here for me.”

Gilbert sighs. Alex inches closer to the door frame.

“You know my reasoning, _mon amour._ How can you ask me to see you when I cannot fully have you, for now? Do you not feel the agony this causes me?”

Alex peers into the parlor, just in time to see Gilbert’s hand slowly and carefully brushing aside the black ringlets of hair resting between Angelica’s shoulder blades.

_ She’ll throw him out.  _ Alex flinches away from the door frame and makes for the stairs as quickly and quietly as he can. ‘Never let them bargain with you, even once’, Angelica has told him again and again. ‘They’ll take exactly what you’re willing to trade away, and that has to be full service every single time’. Prince Gilbert is clearly not here to make Angelica his full-time, exclusive courtesan, so he will surely be escorted out any moment now.

Alex lingers at the top of the stairs, waiting for footsteps until his nerves drive him back into the safety of his bedroom.

No matter how much time he spends studying Angelica’s every move, seems like he might never truly understand.

~

There is no trace of fatigue or conflict on Angelica’s face the following morning. They drink coffee and snack on fresh apricots on the porch facing the backyard, as they always do on the sunnier mornings. The winter has been ushered off from the way of what is shaping up to be a warm summer. 

Alex does his best to quell his impatience - he can tell the words sit heavy on Angelica’s tongue.

“I will be nominating you for the inauguration ceremony this August,” she eventually says, eyes fixated on the little pond towards the back of her garden.

Alex tries to seem surprised enough to be convincing without breaking the serene, calm atmosphere. His enthusiasm is greatly stifled by the fact that he still lacks the information he’ll need to calculate the exact cost of this victory.

“Oh? I thought it was too soon for me?” is all he says.

Angelica still isn’t looking at him. “There has been a change of plans. We will need you working.”

Alex licks his lips. “We?”

Angelica huffs and gestures broadly. “This household that has invested substantial amounts of resources into your education against the judgements of so many.”

It is not as though Alex was expecting her to tell the truth. He swallows around the ball of dread forming in his throat. “And Prince Gilbert?”

“I’ve been re-evaluating our prospects against the other apprentices, and I think Aaron Burr has a better shot with him,” Angelica says.

Alex has to hide his disbelief behind a napkin. “I’m sorry, what?”

Angelica is not listening as far as he can tell. “I believe that Prince Thomas has taken a liking to you, and we should go ahead and explore that further.”

Alexander’s eyes fall shut. There go the final scraps of hope that he had mis-interpreted the conversation he overheard last night due to a lack of context.

“Does Prince Gilbert know that he’s our real target?”

“Was. He was our target.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Watch your tone,” she snaps. “And to answer your question, His Highness is not an idiot. Of course he knows that he is the main target of every aspiring male courtesan right now.”

“But we actually had a shot at him!” Alex clumsily plops his cup onto the porch and his frustration propels him onto his feet. Angelica merely cocks an unimpressed eyebrow at his theatrics. “Your connection to him, his inability to get married or take female lovers, there is a rationale to this!” Alex tries and fails to swallow his pride. “What does _Burr_ have that I don’t?”

“Discipline, for one,” Angelica remarks dryly. “And status. If Prince Gilbert takes a courtesan at all, it will be a discreet choice that will go smoothly over at court with little talk. I admit I should have seen this earlier on. Prince Thomas is in a less precarious position and as such, more likely to play around.”

“Play around?” Alex can nearly taste his frustration mingled with the bitter aftertaste of the coffee. There is no use trying to debate the logic of an excuse when he can’t call it out for what it is without exposing himself.

Angelica stirs a cube of sugar into her coffee, though the liquid is most likely cooled down too much to properly dissolve it. “These are the cards we’ve been dealt, we either adapt and work with the hand we have, or we lose and you’re left fighting for the scraps the likes of Adams, is that what you want?”

Alex grits his teeth in frustration. “Prince Thomas will discard me like a piece of single-use tissue and you know it.”

Servants, lovers, courtesans. The crown prince is notorious for chewing them up and spitting them out without a second thought. Whether it’s out of boredom or paranoia depends on who you ask, but neither case is ideal for Alexander’s ends. He can see already how it will pan out, being sampled once like an exotic wine and tossed aside as usual, the expanse of a miserable future spent entertaining those interested in trying out the crown prince’s leftovers stretching out before his eyes.

“We’ll crack him,” Angelica says with a force of confidence that hits Alex like physical thing. She doesn’t believe it; she said as much to Gilbert in their parlor last night. It’s too ambitious, too risky when Alex is on shaky footing in this world to begin with. What on earth did Gilbert say - or do - to her last night that made her bend to his will?

“He’s getting married!” he tries.

“It’s a long process, we have time. Besides, if you are truly naïve enough to think that that will stop him from taking someone he wants, I might actually cry.”

“Angelica,” Alex pleads as softly as he can, letting the fear stirring in his guts seep through to his voice. “I can’t take him. You know I can’t.”

Angelica clicks her tongue and sets her cup down as well. “I’m sorry if I have somehow given you the impression that this was going to be easy.” She pats at the perfectly clean corners of her mouth with a napkin. “You are always free to return to the streets if this is too much for you to handle, Alexander.”

Before Alex has the chance to make matters worse than they already are, Maria’s soft knock at the door startles them both.

“A letter for you, Mistress.”

Almost in unison, they both draw in a deep breath.

“Please.” Angelica tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear and clears her throat. Maria quickly raises her eyebrows at Alex as she pads over and hands her the envelope. Alex glances quickly at the sky and shrugs.

Angelica gasps as she reads the return address on the envelope and tears it open without bothering to ask for a letter opener. “It’s from my sister!”

Alexander nearly comments on how Peggy usually just calls, but then realizes she must be referring to the other sister, the one he hasn’t had the pleasure of meeting yet.

The light in Angelica’s eyes dims as she scans the contents of the letter. A rare crack in the impeccable mask she has been wearing all morning.

“She must be eagerly looking forward to your reunion next month,” Alex probes.

Angelica’s lips press into a stiff line as she carefully folds the letter and tucks it back into the envelope. “She’s indisposed. I will have to introduce you to her sometime next year.”

If it wasn’t for their tense disagreement just moments before, Alex might even dare to lay a comforting palm on Angelica’s shoulder. 

“I hope she’ll feel better very soon,” he says instead. “Probably not very smart to try and sail from London to here if she’s not in perfect health.”

Angelica leans her elbows to her knees and sighs, rubbing at the near-nonexistent creases on her forehead. 

“Alexander, I realize that sometimes our line of work may feel like we’re being tossed every which way based on the whims of powerful men.” Her eyes have grown distant again, fixed on the serene waters of the pond. “But I need you to remember that underneath the contempt that some married women show towards us is hidden the fact that they would kill for the power and freedom that we have.”

Alex blinks at the abrupt change in the trajectory of the conversation.

“I’m sorry about my earlier insolence,” he forces himself to say, seizing the calmer atmosphere. Regardless of how he’ll have to reconcile this unfortunate setback with the endgame of his plan, he can’t do it without Angelica’s support. He needs this faith she has mistakenly placed on him if he wants to make it to the finish line.

“Just-” Angelica flicks a bit of pollen off her gown and sighs. “Just remember your training. You won’t let me down.”

Alex studies her stony profile for a moment and nods. “I won’t let you down.”

A calico stray cat jumps onto the back fence and sits there, linking its paw. A rare find in the concubine village; usually the strays are exterminated or chased off by the guards, so they don’t start over-breeding and become a problem.

“Who did you have in mind for my endorser?” Alex asks. As his sponsor and mentor Angelica can nominate him for inauguration, but another member of court will need to endorse the nomination so he can attend. A way of making sure the apprentices properly establish themselves at court, Angelica says, though Alex doesn’t see the point as most of them will already have connections there.

Angelica waves her hand dismissively. “That won’t be an issue. I will need you to write a poem and perform it at court next week. A good one, a little bit political so people pay attention. Can you do that?”

Alex swallows the lingering dregs of his annoyance; one visit from Prince Gilbert and he has been swiftly demoted from an accomplice in a shared plan into a pawn in one where he needs not know the details.

The quill sits heavy in the breast pocket of his vest.

“I think I can manage.”

~

_ “I want to fight.” _

_ “I know.” John runs his knuckles down Alexander’s spine sending ripples of shivers in their wake. “But the revolution isn’t about what we want, it’s about what we need. And we need your pamphlets.” _

_ Alex burrows his nose into John’s naked chest and huffs, eliciting a giggle. _

_ “Consider this: I can fight  _ and _write.”_

_ John snorts and rolls on top. “Oh, I’m sure you’d overthrow the entire monarchy all by yourself if only I let you.” He grins down at Alex who tries to half-heartedly push him off, only to have his wrists pinned to the coarse mattress. Those dimples really do make him weak. _

_ “Cheater.” _

_ John lowers his mouth to his lover’s collarbone and speaks into Alexander's skin between mouthy kisses. “We can’t have you drawing attention to yourself. You’re too valuable to be lost in some street quarrel before people even start to take the cause seriously.” _

_ Alex sighs and suppresses a moan, too stubborn to let the matter go. “My pamphlets won’t build the barricades.” _

_ John pulls back and looks him in the eye, suddenly serious. “Don’t ever underestimate the part you play in this, Alexander. The revolution has to take shape in people’s hearts before it can materialize on the streets.” _

Do you know what’s taking shape in my heart, John Laurens? _As usual, Alex thinks it but doesn’t say it. Instead, he seizes the opportunity to tackle the man on top of him until he’s the one sitting on John’s pelvis with a victorious grin on his face._

_ “Here’s a new concept,” Alex says and rolls his hips. “I’ll fuck and write us into the revolution.” _

_ John’s burst of laughter quickly turns into a groan. _

_ “Now that one I could get behind.” _


End file.
